a pair of bright blue eyes
by Lady StarFlower
Summary: Gilbert never considered fate to be kind. But right now, right here…he supposes he could make an exception. Or; in which Gilbert meets his grandchild and feels abound. Felix/Annette, post Blue Lions canon. Nothing but fluff and family feels!


The blizzard roars around him like the breath of a furious god, and Gilbert grimaces as he draws his hood further over his face. None the less, his dun-colored mare forges on with the stubborn determination that had endeared him to the steed since she was a gangly foal, and it's thanks to her persistence that he's able to make such good time in these conditions.

He thanks the saints that she was such a persistent animal, for he wouldn't have arrived in time for one of the most important days of his life.

Gilbert squints through the blinding snow and feels something in him relax at the sight of the flapping banners on the castle walls, bearing the Fraldarius coat of arms in proud, time-worn colors. It's a welcome sight after all those relentless miles of dull, snow-swept landscapes.

The guards at the gates snapped into salutes when they spot him, and Gilbert is promptly escorted into the castle without a great deal of fuss, which he is grateful for. Even though the war is over, and he has resumed his duties as the king's most trusted knight, overwhelming courtesy has never been his strongest suit.

"The duchess has been most anxious to receive you." The guard leading him through the torch-lit halls informs him as Gilbert brushes off the last of the journey's snow. "She has been preparing for your arrival for several weeks."

Gilbert sighs. Annette never changes. "Even in her condition?"

"Yes, sir." The guard says earnestly. "She has been adamant that we treat you with the upmost hospitality."

The man shakes his head. His daughter is as stubborn as the mare who had carried him here; determined to welcome him back into her life with open arms, treating him with far more kindness than he deserves with the naiveté of a child and the patience of a saint.

Annette…she emerged shaken but unscathed from the war, and has already spread her contagious cheer to the people of Fhirdiad. Commoners and nobles alike are desperate for that brightness after those tense years of despair, and so they welcome her warmth like the moon borrows light from the sun.

He is not deserving of a child such as this.

The guard halts in front of a pair of beautifully engraved doors, and raps smartly three times. "My lady? Sir Gustave has arrived."

"Let him in!"

And just like that, the aches of his journey-ridden bones melt in the sheer brightness of his daughter's voice. Gilbert's stony features barely have enough time to soften with affection before the doors swing open and Annette is there, stretching out her hands and rushing forward to embrace him in a most un-ladylike and graceless manner as her golden-brown laugh fills the room.

"Oh, Father, I'm so happy you're here!" Her arms can barely encircle his torso, and she has to tiptoe to lay her sunny head on his chest, but Gilbert would not trade her for the stateliest lady in the land and leans down to fold her into his arms.

"I came as soon as I heard." He tells her gravely, pulling away to study her features. Annette beams up at him, her tousled hair framing her pale face like a fiery crown, but she feels brittle in his hands, and he could feel the weary sway of her body. "You should be in bed."

Annette sticks out her mouth in a pout. "But I had to see you! Is that so bad?"

"If you fall ill on my account, I will not be able to forgive myself."

Her face softens, and Annette reaches out and cradles his weathered face in her hand, just like the way she used to do when she was a little girl sitting on his lap. "I'll be fine, Father. I've survived worse, you know that."

Gilbert guides her to the sofa in the center of the room. "At least sit down. For my sake."

Annette sinks down onto the cushions without protest, which was already a big indicator of the true extent of her exhaustion, but she still has the energy to pull his hand into hers and widen her sky-blue eyes at him with gleeful hope. "You ready to meet her?"

He's surprised. "Is she sound enough?"

Annette grins. "She's healthy as a flower in spring! Mercie kept saying how we have to prepare for the worst since she's so premature, but so far, she's hasn't caught ill and is doing splendidly." She squeezes his hand and turns her head to call out. "Felix?"

Gilbert startles as the young duke prowls to their side from the shadows; he was so quiet that the knight never noticed him standing in the corner. He's about to rise to his feet to offer a bow but Duke Fraldarius shakes his head with a short scoff. "We don't need your ceremony here. You're family, aren't you?"

Caught off guard, Gilbert opens his mouth to protest, but then movement from the bundle of white in the duke's arms catches his eye and effectively silences him.

The babe is a rosy-cheeked child, so small and so tender in her father's arms. Her eyes are squeezed shut and her tiny fists are balled up next to her plump cheeks, and she's making these soft, snuffling noises unique to newborns.

She has a shock of midnight-dark hair, a trait given to her from her father, but when her cloudy eyes open, Gilbert feels something within him break when he sees that his grandchild has inherited her mother's eyes, which were passed down to her from his wife.

It's a known fact that all newborn babies have bright blue eyes that would eventually settle into their true colors as they grow, but Gilbert knows in his heart that that soft, wintry-blue color would remain forever true.

"Father?" Annette's voice sounds surprised. "Are you…?"

Gilbert is just as taken aback as she is. He hasn't cried in decades, not since Duscur, but the stinging in his eyes is unmistakable. He blinks them away.

Felix doesn't say anything aloud, looking distinctly uncomfortable and very much out of his element, but he does possess enough grace to bend down and offer the white bundle to his father-in-law. "Take her."

"I couldn't possibly-"

"Just do it." And with an impatient rustle of snow-white cotton, Gilbert is holding his granddaughter in his war-hardened arms.

She barely weighs anything. She's warm and smells faintly of milk. Her eyes, wide open now, fixate steadily on him, and Gilbert marvels.

Fate is fickle. It slew his liege and burned his future. It tossed the crown prince into fire and brought him back. It cleaved his family in twain and drew them back together. It brought him through the snows of self-imposed exile, like a dun-colored mare trudging steadily through drifts of burning cold.

And yet it brought him here to this fragile, iridescent moment, where his daughter is burrowed into his side looking fit to burst with delighted happiness and there's a softness on the duke's face and his grandchild is falling asleep contentedly in his arms as the blizzard rages outside, forgotten.

Gilbert never considered fate to be kind. But right now, right here…he supposes he could make an exception.


End file.
